


i'm on fire

by ikvros



Category: Midnight Cinderella (Video Game)
Genre: Affairs, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forbidden Love, Infidelity, Loosely Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, Route Spoilers, but steeped in the political/cultural practices of medieval europe, so do with that what you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikvros/pseuds/ikvros
Summary: “If you keep looking at me like that…” His thumb brushes over the tender swell of her bottom lip, and goosebumps rise all over her body. “I’m going to want to eat you up.”At the same moment, her hand slides down his abdomen. Between the intensity of his gaze and the way his breath hitches as her fingertips meet the cool metal of his belt buckle, she can find no way to stop the words that escape her next.“Maybe I want to be devoured.”





	i'm on fire

**Author's Note:**

> title is a lyric from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5Rj4aH-zME).
> 
> this goes out to all of my fellow nico hoes.

It’s spring.

She watches the scenery of Stein’s blooming countryside pass through the carriage window, leaning her chin into her palm as she rests on the sill. The fields are sprawling, covered in poppies and young purple moore — such a sharp contrast from the last time she made this journey, when the hills were still yellow and barren, and the wind carried the last chill of winter. It reminds her of just how long she’s been away from her country, and her heart aches at the thought.

Going forward, she must be more proactive about retaining her presence in Wysteria, no matter the circumstances. Her brow furrows in contempt as she remembers how easily she allowed her requests to return earlier to be dissuaded, how meek she had become at the mere prospect of disagreeing with Byron. How is she to be married to a man she cannot speak her mind to? And in a fortnight, no less —

“Princess?”

A curious voice breaks her out of her reverie, gentle and familiar as the sway of the carriage. She lifts her face from her hand, trying to relax her expression before she meets his gaze — but her attendant’s eyes are keen. She’s nearly alarmed to discover the pensive intent with which he’s studying her, the amber of his eyes glowing yellow in a beam of afternoon sunlight. She’s certain that he doesn’t miss a thing even as she smiles at him.

“What is it, Nico?”

He frowns, a subtle downward pull at the corners of his lips.

“I thought that you might be at ease once we left the castle, but you seem even more tense than before. Are you nervous about returning to Wysteria?”

Admittedly, she does have her worries about her abrupt return to the palace. The King has been unwell for some time; he’s bedridden and unable to properly manage the state of affairs. He could fall any day now. The bureaucrats are antsy about this, and have even pressed for her wedding day to be moved up — Giles has stressed to her in several letters the importance of fulfilling her engagement. They bureaucrats will not see her rule a day without a consort, and she’s not sure that the atmosphere in the palace will be welcoming while she is still unmarried.

But the weight of her crown isn’t what feels burdensome.

“A little,” she says quietly, folding her hands together as she faces Nico fully. She doesn’t know if she should be honest with him — she supposes not, considering his position as a Knight of Stein, and one of Byron’s most trusted aides. But there has always been something uniquely disarming about him; even now, his eyes are full of kindness, his worry written all over his face.

“Is that all?” His voice indicates that he will not believe her even if she says yes.

“Nico, I...shouldn’t say.” And she hopes he’ll leave it at that; hopes that he will not force her to admit that —

“You don’t want to marry Byron,” he murmurs, and she stiffens. His eyes are lidded and soft, full of knowing sympathy. “But you’re doing it anyway, for the sake of our countries.”

The transition of power between monarchs is a delicate and fragile time, and King Byron offers Wysteria the stability and protection it needs in the years ahead. Stein, too, will benefit from their tie; while it is powerful and wealthy in its own right, it’s very young in comparison to Wysteria’s centuries-old crown. In the wake of the engagement, trading partners and allyships have already expanded for both.

This is what was proposed to her months ago; this is what she agreed to. Love had never been part of the bargain, though she _hoped_ she might see it blossom. But the spring has arrived, and her heart still withers.

She swallows, gaze dropping to her clasped hands.

“Byron’s a good man — he is. But his heart is complicated...he’s distant, and even cold at times. I don’t feel any closer to him than I did when I met him.”

“And?” Nico urges. She looks up, a bit startled. There’s nothing accusatory about the look on his face, but she purses her lips together. “Distance can be crossed, in time. There’s more, isn’t there?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be discussing this with you, Nico.” There’s an edge to her voice, her last line of defense against her attendant’s intuitive nature. At times, it feels like Nico is the only person in the world who sees her. Her constant companion, her confidant, her friend — he knows her better than anyone else. But his true loyalty lies with Byron, and Stein, as it should. She cannot burden him with anything that might make him feel conflicted.

She’s perplexed when Nico takes his gloves off, setting them gingerly beside himself on the carriage bench. Wordlessly, he reaches out to take her hands in his, and the gesture wrings her heart. They’re calloused and warm, and unexpectedly large as they cover her own. It’s nothing new for him to be this close to her. It’s meant to be calming, reassuring — but it makes her heart speed up for reasons unknown.

“Princess,” Nico says, and her eyes snap up to his face again. His stare is serious, unwavering, eyes full of something that blazes.

He’s beautiful, she must admit. His soft features are effeminate upon first glance, almost doll-like — there was a time she thought him boyish, back when his only duties were to make her tea and escort her through her daily schedule. He’s also as sweet and soft-spoken as they come, a welcome change from the line of noblemen that had cast judgment on her during her first weeks as Princess.

The first time she’d watched him draw his sword — his stance, his strength, his movement...it was distinctly masculine, confident and imposing. He’d slain their attackers with skilled precision, and she imagined that she would have been frightened of him, had she not been the one he was protecting. That was the day she discovered there’s much more to him than what meets the eye.

“I am a Knight of Stein,” he continues. “I owe my life to Byron, and have sworn an oath to him and the country that I was born in. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“Good,” she whispers, prepared to pull her hand away, to look out the window again. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and her corset is too tight, and the path ahead seems longer than ever.

His hands tighten around hers.

“So I would like to make another oath, to you, here and now.” The breath she draws is sharp, and she wants to protest, but the words are lost in the intensity of his gaze. “I cannot control who my heart lies with any more than I can control where I come from. But I have a duty to honor it, and protect that person to the best of my ability.”

“Who...your heart lies with?” She questions. He can’t be saying what she _thinks_ he’s saying.

His eyes soften, and his lips curl up into a wistful smile.

“I decided this a long time ago, but now you’ll be able to hold me to it. As long as you’ll have me, I will remain by your side. You will always have me in your corner, no matter how alone you may feel in the castle. I will do everything in my power to protect your happiness...even as you willingly sacrifice it.”

“Oh, Nico...” Her heart nearly stops in the wake of his declaration, a mix of surprise and gratitude and something melancholy twisting in her chest.

He reaches up with one hand, and she forgets to breathe for a moment as he brushes his thumb through the trail of wetness on her cheek. She hadn’t even realized that tears had fallen, but he wipes them away with a signature gentleness that simultaneously calms her and makes her heart leap — there he goes again, surprising her.

“What if there is a day that you have to choose between your oaths?” She asks, so quietly, as if her voice may carry all the way back to Stein Castle.

As the carriage enters the forest, sunlight filters through the window in broken streams. In the span of a breath, Nico’s forehead leans against her own, and she is unable to do anything but look back at him. She is enraptured by the conviction in his eyes, and she can feel the warmth of his words in every part of her body when he finally speaks again.

“I will follow my heart.”

* * *

It’s winter.

The first snow of the season swirls in the wind that howls outside, muffled by the thick panes of her balcony doors. She’s incredibly relieved that the carriage arrived to the palace before the storm picked up — Nico had been on-edge the entire trip, checking the darkening skies every few minutes, urging the coachman with strained politeness to pick up the pace. They’d crossed Wysteria’s border in time, just before the snow started to fall heavy, and it hasn’t relented since. The roads are sure to be blanketed in it by now, which will further delay Byron’s departure from Stein.

Not that she’s complaining.

She’s reclining along the sofa in front of the fire in her chambers, a book that she isn’t reading open in her blanketed lap. Her fingers trace over the fading print, but her mind is elsewhere: she hasn’t been able to think about anything but her upcoming coronation since its announcement.

Due to the steady decline of his health, the late King’s passing was not unexpected, and she is well-prepared to take the throne. May he rest in peace, but she’s _grateful_ for his death — his frail hold on the crown for the past year has allowed her country to rot — the situation is so dire that Giles had nearly wept with relief upon her long-overdue return. Though she’s just now adjusting as a consort...to become a queen in her own right, to have power that isn’t tied to Byron, to take Wysteria into her hands and watch over her people — nothing in the world matters more to her.

Ascending to her throne will give her the toe-up she needs amongst the Stein bureaucrats; they will no longer be able to interfere with her comings and goings between her countries, nor will she look to her husband for permission, as she has done for nearly a year. She and Byron will be complete equals in station: this alone will give her the authority to choose where she resides, and she doesn’t plan to return to Stein any time soon — which she suspects Byron already knows. She doubts that he’ll appoint a regent in order to join her in Wysteria. In fact, she’s counting on the fact that he won’t.

The lovelessness of her marriage, in this one instance, will serve her.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and all at once, the knot twisting in her belly unfurls.

“Come in,” she calls softly, and Nico slips inside, carefully balancing a cup of tea in one hand. A smile pulls at his lips when his eyes land on her, and the glimmer of affection in them does not go unnoticed — rather, it stirs something within her, soothes her in the same manner that having her hair stroked might. The door closes soundlessly, and as Nico strides across the room, the scent of peppermint wafts around her.

Nico had left her to bathe and get ready for bed, informing her that he would return with tea in an hour. It’s way past the time that _any_ man other than her husband should be in her chambers, but no one in this palace would deign to tell her so. Even Giles, who’s always clucked at their disregard for proper etiquette, will hold his tongue now: she is his Queen.

“You mentioned that you’ve had trouble sleeping,” he says, holding the cup and saucer out to her. She takes them appreciatively, the emanating heat of the china pleasant against her cold fingertips. “I’m not sure that anything but the coronation ceremony will soothe your nerves, but this should help. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Nico. It smells wonderful.” She smiles up at him, her eyes hopeful. “Will you stay with me for a bit?”

“How could I say no to you, your Highness?” It’s meant to be teasing; his voice is playful, but it still makes her feel uneasy.

“You don’t have to refer to me that way when we’re alone,” she chides, and he sits beside her, leaning his elbow into the backrest of the sofa before resting his chin in his palm. “You know that. It’s a bit uncomfortable, to be honest. And you can _always_ say no. Though I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She takes a sip of her tea, unsurprised but delighted at its perfect steep. It’s warm and soothing, the mint bright on her tongue, and she shoots him an appreciative glance before setting the cup on the table.

“‘Princess’ doesn’t exactly suit you now,” he teases, grinning.

“I thought it had become a rather affectionate nickname,” she retorts without thinking, raising an eyebrow. Most of the time, when he calls her Princess, it’s a slip of the tongue; a hard-broken habit of mouth in lieu of her name. But...

She falls mute as she recalls the circumstances under which he’d last referred to her as such. The _last_ thing she’d resembled, naked and panting beneath him, was a regal lady, but her former title fell against her ear in a purr so depraved that it alone had nearly sent her over the edge. She’s not sure if the twinge in her belly is from embarrassment, or something else entirely as the memories color her cheeks.

“Are you alright? You’re so flushed all of the sudden.” Nico leans in toward her, his brows knitting in concern. She’d almost believe that her faux pas flew over his head, if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes kindle and dance like the fire that burns before them. The honeyed amber of his irises darken as his face draws ever-closer, and she tries to focus on her breathing, the rise and fall of her bosom heavy beneath her nightgown.

“I’m fine.” Steeling herself against his proximity, she manages to speak. “I think this blanket’s making me a little warm.” It’s only a half lie, but the corner of Nico’s mouth twitches up, and her gaze falls to his lips despite her better judgment. They’re pink and plush and smooth, and she remembers _so vividly_ how it felt when he —

“Well then,” he says, and she nearly jumps when she feels his fingers curl into the wool across her lap and pull, her forgotten book falling to the floor with a startling _thump_. “Wouldn’t want you coming down with a fever overnight. You have a busy morning.”

“Right,” she breathes, and the blanket slides off of her. The cool air against her the sensitive skin of her legs is almost more troublesome than it is relieving, and she tugs the rucked up hem of her nightgown quickly over her knees as Nico retracts to lay the woolen throw over the backrest. She wills herself to calm down, to distract them both, but something electric pulses between her thighs when he peeks up at her through his rose-tinted lashes.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice has lowered a dangerous octave, and she swallows, wondering if it’s safer to simply tell him that she’s tired. He’ll excuse himself without protest, as he always has, and she’ll be free to relieve this insistent, sinful desire on her own. But she finds the words tumbling out of her mouth before her mind has a chance to catch up.

“Of course.”

“You’re planning on staying here, aren’t you? After the coronation?”

Relief floods her stomach.

_Get it together._

“For the time being,” she confirms, blinking as she wades through her clouded thoughts.  “Wysteria’s situation has worsened in the time I’ve been away, and the reputation of the crown is fragile. If both Byron and myself were to retreat back to Stein in the wake of the coronation...talk of a coup might become more than rebel propaganda. I must earn back the trust of the people as Queen. I cannot effectively do that from another country.”

Nico seems to ponder that for a moment, nodding slowly.

“You’re right. But you must know that Byron won’t leave Stein for long, either.”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I imagine that he’ll want to return as quickly as possible.”

“Will a divided King and Queen really inspire trust in either country?” He looks worried, and she can’t blame him. It’s certainly unorthodox for married monarchs to reside in two separate castles — much less two different _countries_ — and it is no doubt another hurdle in the mission she’s on. But it’s something else entirely that’s bothering him; something they haven’t talked about since that solemn spring day in the carriage.

“We’ll...figure it out one day at a time,” she says softly, in response to his spoken question, and the one wavering in his eyes. Despite those words, there is an ache in her chest, deep and hollow.

After a moment, Nico speaks again — this time with hesitance.

“I imagine...that after your coronation, the pressure for you to produce an heir will increase significantly, as well.”

Her cheeks color again at the thought. He’s right; her and Byron have managed to postpone conceiving an heir while waiting to rise in Wysteria, and she can buy herself a bit more time while she’s working to repair things here — but they’ll have to concede sooner or later. It is their _duty_ as rulers.

“Yes, well...whether that will happen any time soon remains to be seen,” she says, smoothing her nightgown over her lap. “After all, our marriage exists in contract only. He still hasn’t touched me since the consummation.”

Her wedding consummation had been a terribly unintimate affair, and not just because of their audience. As unsettling as the witnesses were, that wasn’t what brought her to tears as Byron took her maidenhood. He hadn’t noticed; he refused to look her in the eyes after he’d rolled off of her. She’d never felt so shameful in her life — like an object rather than a woman; a tool in consecrating their marriage, akin to a coronation’s orb and sceptre. At the time, she wondered if that was all being lovemaking could be.

Nico had shown her the answer.

Her face continues to heat with memories of the euphoria she’d experienced at his hands and mouth — just a week ago, when Byron had been absent from the castle. When she’d behaved like a woman possessed in the wake of too many nights spent alone; still wet and warm from her bath, panting as she clung to him on unsteady legs. He’d been startled and concerned while he held her upright, asking her over and over again what was wrong — but she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t do anything but bury her face in his neck, and he'd gone rigid when her mouth opened against his skin — when understanding overswept him. God, she had practically _begged_ him for it.

And he had obliged. If he felt conflicted about betraying his king, it hadn’t shown in the hours he spent satiating her. Over and over and over again, until she was so exhausted that she fell limp, barely registering the care with which he dressed her properly and tucked her into bed. She was unconscious before her head hit the pillow, and the next day, he acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired between them at all.

When she tried to talk to him about it that afternoon, he’d sharply changed the subject, like she’d never spoken at all. She knows she should have pursued it, but without saying it out loud, she could pretend it was a dream. It allowed her to lie to herself, to push aside the guilt and the culmination of her feelings for him, even if for just a while. He was granting her the privilege of forgetting, and she selfishly took it.

“He never even took a mistress, in all of the years I spent by his side. I assumed that pleasures of the flesh disinterested him unless they were accompanied by love.” Nico’s earring glints in the light as he turns his hardened gaze toward the fireplace. “But now...it’s apparent that all he’s capable of loving is his country.”

It’s a hard thing to fault him for. Caring for his people and his kingdom so much that there’s no room left for anything else...it’s laudable, really. There is a part of her that admires him deeply for it; a piece of her that absorbs the example he sets for ruling a country at such a young age.

“I knew what I was agreeing to when I accepted his proposal. I’ve made peace with the fact that our marriage is political.” She keeps her eyes on Nico even as he continues to stare into the ebbing fire. “Back then, you asked me if there was more to it. My hesitance to see my engagement through, I mean. I was afraid to tell you, because I thought it might make you think differently of me. But I think I knew, even then, that I could never love him either, no matter how long I spent at his side.”

When he looks at her in the wake of her confession, there is pain in his eyes.

“You went and martyred yourself for Wysteria,” he whispers. “Even then, I knew that’s what you were doing, and I just stood by and let it happen. I enabled it, too, with that stupid promise I made.”

“It was my choice, Nico. There was hardly anything you could have done to stop me.”

It’s just a fact, but the steel in her voice makes him wince, and his eyes fall away. It’s the first time she’s ever spoken to him with a hint of authority. She knows Nico doesn’t mean to say that he could have controlled her — but it strikes a frazzled chord. Even so, regret licks at her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she says, after a quiet few moments.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs softly. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of men telling you that they know better than you do.”

“Enough for a lifetime,” she agrees, a bitter laugh in her voice. “But you speak to me from your heart, not your ego. So I’ll take it, even if I don’t like it.”

It’s one of the many reasons she loves him.

That’s what she wants to say, as he looks at her again, his eyes lidded with fondness. That if she had more time, more room to explore her feelings for him before she ever met the King of Stein, she might have had a reason to reject the proposal. That if she knew how it felt to be touched by someone who cares for you, and to touch them in return, she couldn’t have settled for anyone else on her wedding night. She wants to ask him why he made that absurd promise to such a stupid princess, and if that’s truly the only thing that binds him to her side. She wants to ask him if he loves her, too.

But it will do neither of them any good to hear the truth. So instead, she says:

“I want you to go back to Stein with Byron.”

His eyes widen, and his lips part to speak, but she holds her hand up. If she doesn’t make her case now, he’ll try talk her out of it, and she’s afraid it very well may work. Heat blooms across her cheeks, and she curses her body’s ridiculous reaction in such a serious moment.

“There are already rumors about us. They’ve been around for as long as you’ve been my attendant. The courts have always whispered, and even those who we consider friends have questioned our proximity. I never minded before, because they were unfounded, but…” She looks down at her clasped hands, her knuckles white with tension.

“They aren’t just rumors anymore, Nico. If you stay, suspicions will rise. If what happened between us were to continue to happen, should we be caught…” Her skin chills at the thought. “My station might save me from the worst, but not even Byron would be able to stop a trial on your behalf. It’s treason. You know what the sentence for treason is.”

At best, exile. At worst...

“So it won’t happen again,” he insists. She chances a peek at him, her heart sinking when she sees his beautiful features twisted in pain, in begrudging acceptance of that horrible truth.

Her hands tremble. She squeezes them together more tightly, and her eyes find her forgotten teacup, its contents now cooled and wasted.

She doesn’t trust her resolve in this palace. Without Byron or the overbearing bureaucrats in Stein looming over them, she’s truly afraid that they may reach a point in their relationship from which they can never return.

A martyr she may be, but she won’t allow it to be for nothing. And she won’t risk Nico’s life.

“You can’t be sure of that,” she says calmly. “And neither can I. So I relieve you from the oath you made to me. After the coronation, I want you to go back to Stein, and take up your former position in the guard.”

A few beats of silence pass.

“Is that an order?”

His voice is ice, quiet but piercing. He’s never spoken to her that way before. There is grief in every part of her when she finds the will to look at him again. A storm angry enough to rival the one outside the palace whirls in his eyes, and it makes her falter for a moment, to see such passion in his gaze. It takes her breath away, and in this moment she understands, without words, that what he feels for her is love. She understands that he will not leave Wysteria by way of reason. So she must give him her answer, as a monarch.

“It is.”

She didn’t think it was possible to hear the sound of her own heart cracking. But in the still silence, as she witnesses the way he manages to compose his expression as he processes those words, she’s sure that nothing has ever sounded more clearly in her ears.

Nico stands abruptly, smoothing his waistcoat as he avoids her gaze.

“If there’s nothing else, I think it’s best that I take my leave for the night.”

She swallows thickly, her voice barely audible.

“Yes, of course. Good night, Nico.”

He says nothing as he moves to walk past her.

After he leaves this room, the walls between them will remain even when he returns to serve her tea in the morning. Nico is forgiving and understanding by nature, but this feels different. Even if his anger wanes overnight, he will shut her out, to protect them both. The formality that should have always existed between them will manifest. Giles will praise her for it. When Byron departs, Nico will follow him, as he was always meant to. He will not look back as he enters the carriage.

And then she will be alone.

Her body moves of its own accord. She barely registers what’s happening as she leans over the armrest of the couch, her arm stretching as far as it will go. Her fingers catch the bottom of his sleeve, just barely, winding into the fabric like a vice.

Nico stops mid-stride, his back rigid.

“Let go.” His voice trembles with restraint.

“No.”

He heaves a sigh that sounds like her name before repeating himself.

 _“Let go.”_ He’s frozen in place, neither moving forward nor looking back her.

“No.”

She feels like a petulant child, but it feels physically impossible to heed his demand. In the seconds that follow, she expects him to yank his arm from her grasp. He could do so easily.

But he does no such thing.

Instead, he spins wildly on his heel, and surges forward. It’s a blur, really, the seconds between which she hangs over the sofa and her back forcefully meets the cushioning below, her arms pinned above her head. Her fingers are still wound in his sleeve, and the fabric pulls taut as he encircles her wrists.

“What are you doing?” Nico’s eyes are glassy as they search her own, his cheeks blotchy as he scowls down at her.

She doesn’t have an answer for him that makes any sense. Something primitive courses through her veins — fear and desperation and _want_ — exists in this space without reason, bursts through her as his body hovers over hers, so close she can feel his warmth. She knows it isn’t fair. She knows it’s selfish. But she doesn’t want him to leave, not now. Not ever.

“I don’t know.” It’s a breathless, simplified version of the truth.

“If you relieve me of my oath, then let me go,” he demands.

Exhilaration washes over her as she watches her cool and collected attendant briefly lose control. His hold on her wrists is too tight for comfort, and the presence of his knee between her legs is made apparent by the way it brands into her inner thigh through the thin fabric of her nightgown. He doesn’t even realize that _she’s_ the one who’s powerless as she lays beneath him.

Still, her fingers tighten in his sleeve, her hand cramping from the strain and the awkward angle. _I won’t._

“Damn it,” he whispers, tears brimming in his eyes. “I don’t understand it.” She wants to tell him that she doesn’t understand either, this magnetism between them. Her own feelings. Her inability to match her actions with her words. But then he says something that stalls her racing heart. “I don’t understand how he has you and takes it for granted.” Her hands are pinned, but she has to shut him up before he says something they’ll both regret. “I don’t understand how he’s not in lo—”

When she leans up and presses her mouth to his, it’s like breaking the surface for air. He yields to her, out of shock, maybe, his lips moving softly with her own, his tears wet against her cheek. Her muscles tremble with the effort it takes to hold herself up without the support of her arms, nearly to the point of giving out, but kissing him feels like breathing. This isn’t anything like the way they’d devoured each other a week ago, when she was half-mad with need.

This is the kiss that should have happened in the wake of a confession; a tentative, innocent twining that she feels all the way down to her toes. This is the kiss that should have happened in the carriage all that time ago, when her love for him grew roots. This is the kiss that should have happened before she tied her life to a country and king.

But it is happening _now_ , wonderfully and sorrowfully, and it ends far too soon.

Her head falls back against the cushioning, muscles throbbing with relief as she stares up at him again. His eyes are wide as her own must be, fingers slackening in their hold on her wrists, and she realizes that she let go of his sleeve. She wonders if he’ll leave. She prays that he won’t.

“Nico,” she starts, but that’s all that she manages to say before he leans down and kisses her again.

Whatever vulnerability they’d shared just moments prior dissipates in the force with which he takes her now. His mouth is hot and urgent, and she responds in kind, straining her wrists against his bruising grasp. She wants to touch him, to wrap her arms around him, but he holds firm, bites her lip when she struggles. She whimpers in surprise, but that just seems to spur him on.

He’s angry.

The realization sends a pleasurable shiver down her spine, and it’s _shameful_ how pliant she immediately becomes beneath him. It’s like a dam’s burst; he floods her from all sides, eventually releasing one of her wrists to wind his fingers in her hair at the base of her skull and pull, until the pale, unmarred column of her neck is exposed and his for the claiming. And claim it he does, with the same vigor he did her mouth, licking and kissing and biting, and she breathlessly begs him not to leave marks between the noises he pulls from her throat.

“Cover them,” he growls, and the sound makes her pulse. She means to protest further, but the words die on her lips when his knee shifts between her thighs and presses right up against her core, drawing a strangled whine from her instead. Her free hand clutches as his arm, and she grinds fruitlessly into the blunt pressure that does more to stir her need than relieve it.

The wrist he’s been holding captive is nearly numb, and her arm sings with relief when he finally releases it to slide his hand hotly down her waist. She vaguely registers the painful tingle of blood rushing back into her fingertips as she grabs at his back, pushing herself closer to him. He rips his mouth from the neckline of her nightgown to kiss her again, and she tries to keep up, meeting his tongue when it pushes past her lips. When his fingers dig harshly into her flesh of her thigh through the fabric, she wonders why something that feels so punishing makes her want more.

She lets him kiss her this way until he’s had his fill, until his frustration seems to ebb between breaths, threading her fingers through his hair when his head finally falls to her shoulder. They’re both panting, walking the tightline between this moment and the next. They can still go back. They can end this here.

“I need you, Nico,” she breathes, and he freezes above her. She realizes that this is the first time she’s said such a thing; that her desperate pleas a week ago hadn’t sounded like they were for _him_ , but for release by any means. It dawns on her that he has no idea what she really feels for him, even now. Her love must seem capricious and selfish, if he even recognizes it at all. Perhaps that’s exactly what it is.

It changes nothing.

“ _I need you,_ ” She repeats, and she holds onto him for dear life, running her fingers softly through his hair until he melts into her, burying his face in her neck. “I want _you_.” So much, forever. She wants all the time in the world with him.

But they only have right now.

In a fluid motion, his arms wind around her, one slipping between her shoulder blades and the other to urge her leg around his waist as he lifts her from the sofa. He carries her easily, and she wraps herself around him, relishing his warmth and the scent that clings to his clothes: peppermint, like the tea he’d prepared for her.

The moments in which he’d first entered her room seem so far away as he pulls aside the bed curtain and lowers her to the sheets below. He breaks away to stand, fingering the buttons on his waistcoat, but her hands fly to interfere. He lets her work in his place, his own falling away without protest as she kneels before him on the bed.

She unbuttons him nimbly —  first his waistcoat, then his shirt, eyes hungrily raking over the skin he unveils as he shrugs the articles down his shoulders. He hadn’t shed any of his clothing when he’d pleasured her a week ago; she’s seen him undressed only once before, when she insisted on tending to a wound he sustained while protecting her.

It’s just as she remembers. Scars litter his chest and stretch across the lean sinew of his arms, many of them pale and faded by time, betrayed only by their texture. Every line on his body is attached to a story, and she marvels at the strange beauty of them against the alabaster. There’s one across his stomach, larger and wider and darker than all the others — it must have been a particularly nasty injury. His muscles contract deliciously beneath her fingertips when she traces it softly, and her lip pulls between her teeth at the sensation.

It’s easy to forget that Nico’s not just an attendant. He spends most days serving her tea and escorting her from place to place, and nothing about the delicate, gentle way he handles fine china or plaits her hair betrays an expertise in swordsmanship. But there’s no mistaking the cut of his body for anything other than a trained knight, and it feels nearly impossible to tear her eyes or her hands away.

A cool finger presses at the underside of her chin as Nico speaks her name lowly. He urges her face upward, until she finally looks into his eyes, where she recognizes something familiar — a burning hunger that’s flashed briefly in moments past, when they allowed their touches and gazes to linger just a second too long. In those instances, it had faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Now, it does not fade. It doesn’t even waver as his head tilts, calculative, and his mouth edges so close to hers that she can feel the warmth of his breath.

“If you keep looking at me like that…” His thumb brushes over the tender swell of her bottom lip, and goosebumps rise all over her body. “I’m going to want to eat you up.”

At the same moment, her hand slides down his abdomen. Between the intensity of his gaze and the way his breath hitches as her fingertips meet the cool metal of his belt buckle, she can find no way to stop the words that escape her next.

“Maybe I want to be devoured.”

She nearly cries out when his hand drops from her face to grab her wrist, yanking her adventurous hand away from the waist of his trousers. The flesh there is tender from how tightly he’d gripped it earlier, but the flash of pain that shoots down her arm pulls a telling moan from her lips — and it does not escape Nico’s notice. He says nothing, but intrigue flickers in his darkened irises as his free hand finds the small of her back, drawing her in until she’s flush against his body. She can feel him straining through his pants, hot and hard against her stomach.

When he kisses her again, it’s with a surprising measure of control. He releases her wrist as he kneels onto the bed, lowering her down to the plush duvet, but all thoughts of chancing another try at undoing his belt fly out the window when his fingers slip beneath her gown and inside her underwear.

He breaks away from her mouth, bringing his lips to her ear as she arches toward his teasing, too-light caress.

“It’s really a shame that Byron hasn’t witnessed this. You look so beautiful when you’re coming undone, I almost feel sorry for him.”

Her hips buck into his hand, but he withdraws his fingers almost immediately, and she whines in protest. Nico shushes her with another kiss before moving down her body, and the tone of his voice is positively predatory when he slides her nightgown up her legs.

“Maybe _I’ll_ give you an heir.”

“ _Nico_ ,” she gasps, finding it difficult to chide him while his kisses follow every exposed inch of her skin. For some reason, his words — the lewd, treasonous words he speaks makes warmth pool between her legs.  “I — _ah_ — I hardly think anyone will be convinced of Byron’s paternity —” she falters when he gently bites into the flesh of her inner thigh, letting out a surprised yelp that makes him chuckle against her skin. “— when the baby is born with pale, rosy hair.”

“Mm,” he hums, nuzzling into her. She writhes against him, her hips shifting, chasing friction. He withdraws to look up at her face, his expression blithely amused.  “Who says our child would have my hair?”

 _Our child._ Those words...they fill her heart and break it in the same breath they’re spoken.

“Your eyes, then,” she breathes, as his fingers hook into the band of her underwear and slides them down her legs. “They’re unmistakable.”

“Have you really thought about it that much, Princess?”

Nico lowers his head, and before she has a chance to answer, his mouth envelops her heat. She gasps when his tongue meets her clit, falling back against the bed as he laps at her with slow, gentle strokes. His hands settle on the tops of her thighs to pull her snugly against his mouth, changing his pressure and speed with every indicative shift of her hips — some far away part of her ponders whether his sensitivity to her needs is the product of intuition or experience. She thinks briefly of the maids and the excited, floating whispers among them regarding Nico’s return to the palace — a tinge of jealousy flares at the thought of his face between someone else’s thighs, one that she has no right to feel.

When he pushes two fingers into her, they both moan at the ease with which they slide in. She’s dripping and wanting, and he lets her fuck herself on his hand, tongue working in time with the pace she sets.

Whether his words had been a threat or a promise, they certainly hadn’t been empty — eat her up he does, as her whines shorten and heighten in pitch, as she nears the edge she seeks. He devours her until she falls over it, until her spine bows, until her muscles spasm around his fingers and she comes with a keen that she tries desperately to muffle into the crook of her arm — the last thing she wants is to alert a stationed guard. He continues until she shrinks away and pushes at his head, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before withdrawing his fingers from her.

The only thing keeping her bound to earth in the aftermath of her orgasm is the crackle of the dying fire. Sweat prickles at her temple, and her eyes flutter closed as she tries to catch her breath — wills her heart to stop hammering so painfully against her chest.

When Nico crawls back up to her, he takes her gown with him. His palms trail over the curve of her hips in the wake of the fabric, and she sighs contentedly at the sensation of his calloused hands against her newly bared skin. It’s only when he urges her to sit up so that he can lift it over her head that her eyes open again, and the sight of him doused in candlelight — his reddened lips, still wet with her arousal, the flush across his cheeks, the mussed tousle of his hair — it fans something in her that already feels inextinguishable.

He makes no move to stop her when she reaches for his belt this time. Instead, he kisses her, long and hard, and she can taste herself on his tongue. Her head is spinning, and she fumbles with the buckle, distracted by his hands as they roam her body.

She pushes his trousers down his hips, and the moment they join the floor with the rest of their clothing, he has her pinned to the bed again. She gasps, but it’s not born from surprise this time; rather, a shiver of exhilaration runs through her as he leans over her body, lowering himself until they’re chest to chest. She wants to bring him the same pleasure he’s given her so many times now with her mouth or her hands — but the look in his eyes betrays the same desperation she feels running through her blood.

“Nico — ”

He leans down, and his voice is honey in her ear, sweet and viscous.

“ _I want you._ ”

When she wraps her limbs around him in the wake of this confession, it feels like coming home. He lays himself bare for her, his flesh and his heart, like an offering. Nico’s touch is a sin in the eyes of God, her own a desecration of the marriage vows she made before Him — but there is holiness in this reverence; there is forgiveness in the rapture. If Hell awaits, let her be damned: this time with him will have been Heaven enough.

This is the last time she will take from him.

She buries her face in his neck, words ghosting against his skin in a voice so quiet that no one except Nico will ever hear — not even God.

“Make love to me.”

He draws back slowly, to look her in the eyes as his hand moves down between their bodies. She reaches up to touch his face, soft beneath her fingertips, warm and perfect. Her mouth falls open when he pushes into her, slow despite how readily her body accepts him, but she never looks away — and neither does he.

He holds her gaze even as he hilts himself, his own lips parting around a low sound that makes her feel like she’ll burn right up beneath him, and she’s so hot, so full, and this — _this_ is a consummation. This joining...this still, ephemeral moment in which the world around them falls away; this is an echo of what could have been. This is what flashed behind her eyelids on her wedding night, this vision: Nico’s face, flushed and dewed, contorted beautifully in pleasure. The pale hair that falls around it, a silken halo. And his eyes, the shining, liquid gold of them — darkened to syrup, pouring into her what she wants so desperately to echo with her voice.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

But all that escapes her when he draws his hips back is a gasp, and the second before he fills her again is agonizing — he intertwines their fingers against the sheets, and her free hand finds anchorage along the trembling muscles between his shoulder blades. Her legs tighten around his waist as he thrusts slowly into her heat, and she feels clumsy beneath him, bound by her own inexperience, overwhelmed by the need that seeps out of her in helpless whimpers.

“Are you okay?”

His voice is so husky, and she nods desperately in response, articulation beyond her. She uses the leverage of her grip to pull her back from the bed, clinging to him. Her mouth opens against the juncture of his neck, teeth followed by tongue, and the melodic sound it pulls from his throat makes her tighten around him.

“So good,” he groans breathlessly, his rhythmic movement faltering. “You feel so good.”

The praise makes her see stars.

“ _More_ ,” she gasps, unsure of what she’s really asking for, but it’s all she can think, all she can say, and he seems to understand. He picks up speed, and she falls back against the bed with a cry that she knows would have been best muffled — but she can’t find it in herself to care about anything but the way it feels when he hoists himself up with his hands, bracing his weight against the bed as he pistons into her. He fills her so completely, and every thrust draws a short, high-pitched noise from her that he leans down to quiet with deep, long kisses.

She wonders if it’s intentional, the way his tongue fucks into her mouth in time with his hips, but she meets both with enthusiasm, her nails digging into his back when he slams in with unintended force that is at once painful and _exactly_ what she needs.

“Yes, like that,” she whimpers, and that’s all he needs to keep going, one of his hands moving to grip her thigh, pushing it along his sweat-slicked waist until it’s nearly parallel to her body. The drag of his cock inside her at this angle is nearly too much, and she falls limp, lets him take over as the onslaught of stimulation brings her to a brink that she can’t quite fall over without —

“Touch yourself for me,” Nico says breathlessly, and she obeys instantaneously, her hand sliding between their heated bodies to circle her clit with practiced, adept fingers.

“Nico, I —”

When he asks her to come for him, when his voice washes over her, the first wave of her orgasm comes crashing with it, with all the force of white water. It roars in her ears, blinds her no matter how hard she tries to keep her eyes open. At the last second, his hand covers her mouth, and her sharp cry is stifled into his palm as he fucks her through it, his head falling against her shoulder with a groan as her heat clamps rhythmically around him.

She realizes that he hasn’t finished when he attempts to withdraw from her, and her leg tightens instinctively around his hips while she catches her breath. Her name is a question when he speaks it against her skin, but with all of her strength, she holds him close — she’s not ready to part with him yet.

“I want you to feel good too,” she says, pulling his face up from her shoulder. He looks unsure, but she touches his cheek, hoping her eyes will convey her sincerity.  “Keep going, Nico — please.”

So he does. She holds on for dear life, biting into his shoulder, pulsing around him when his tentative strokes become less forgiving, gasping at the delicious, sinful things he purrs in her ear. If she wasn’t already so overstimulated, she thinks his words alone could take her to the edge again — the memory of them will make her blush mad for weeks.

She praises him, too, the desperate need to be honest in these last moments usurping her bashfulness, and her encouragement pulls beautiful moans from him — she wonders, as his hips stutter, if he’ll give her a child after all. Some terrible, reckless part of her hopes for it amidst the sudden panic such a thought stirs. She bites into her lip to prevent herself from voicing the desire for him to come inside, hard enough to bleed.

And then, he slips out of her, kissing her as his release spurts warmly against her lower belly. She swallows his moans, letting the friction of their bodies work against his cock as he rides his orgasm to its end.

When they finally still, neither of them are ready to let go.

But eventually, the haze ebbs, lapping at the shore of coherency, and she realizes that their hands are still entwined. The bones in her fingers ache from being pressed into the mattress, but she squeezes tightly, and he pulls back to look at her before his own respond in kind — as if to say _I am here_ _with you._ Tears fill her eyes and spill over in the wake of what feels like completion, as her affection overflows, and Nico’s brows pull together before he leans down to kiss them away.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs against her cheek, but the sweetness in his voice only makes it harder to stop.

She remembers the tears she shed on her wedding night and how they’d rolled down her temples, lonely in their trek as she stared up at the ceiling. She remembers the dark, cold pit in her stomach then, a world away from the warmth that encompasses her now — the warm light that Nico naturally emanates, that he shares with her in this moment. He’s all she’s ever wanted.

She loves him.

She loves him.

She loves him.

“But I’m happy,” she says, because it’s the only truth she’ll allow herself to speak.

“So am I." His  smile is gentle, and he strokes her damp skin reverently.

In this world that exists between them, around them, shrouded by the bed curtain, there is nothing tragic about their love. In this space that they will soon leave behind, their shared happiness exists without limit. It is more than she could have hoped for. It is far more than she deserves — and she will remember it always.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!
> 
> this fic made me really sad and i HATE sad endings, so...i have some happy future headcanons for my own damn fic. ask me about them on [tumblr](http://fenrirgodspeed.tumblr.com)!!!


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